


the lighthouse mystery

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Everybody Lives, F/F, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, part ghost story part slow burn romance part cozy small town murder mystery, the ideal vibe for this fic is 'agatha christie novel but there are ghosts and no one is straight', with the notable exceptions of peter lukas and jurgen leitner. gerry and gertrude are fine though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Murdered? Really?” Jon said, sprawled across one of the twin-sized beds in their shared hotel room.“Maybe. Melanie and I are going to investigate. Mind checking out the lighthouse by yourself tomorrow?”“Not at all.” Jon paused, then folded his reading glasses and put them in his pocket. “You do realize that you could just ask her out on a regular date, right? You don’t need the pretense of solving a mystery.”Georgie threw a pillow at him.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58





	the lighthouse mystery

“No. Absolutely not.”

Georgie glanced over. Jon was slumped in the passenger seat, scowling as he pressed his phone to his ear.

“No,” he said again. “I refuse to add such an inane and pointless— no, listen to me—”

Outside the car, sun flashed between tree trunks as they drove. The road was striped with shadows and cracked with age. Beyond the trees, the light turned fields to emerald and crickets hummed in the grass.

“I do not _want_ to consider it,” Jon hissed. “Yes, I’ll get back to you. Thank you for your advice. Have a— have a day.”

“Who was that?” Georgie asked.

“My editor.” He sat up, glaring at the dashboard, and brushed crumbs off the front of his button-down shirt. “She read my latest manuscript. Apparently, it could use a romantic subplot.”

Jon said the words “romantic subplot” like other people said “cockroach infestation.” Georgie laughed aloud, tapping her hands on the steering wheel.

“Why?”

“It’d make it more marketable.” When Jon frowned, his face scrunched up like he had bitten into a coffee bean. “When I said I wanted to branch out from writing nonfiction, I said— I said I was going to try writing horror, not romance. They are completely different genres of literature.”

Georgie watched a field speckled with white sheep flick past. A tower of cumulus clouds billowed on the horizon. Jon folded his arms and huffed.

“So? Are you planning to sell out, or what?”

“I don’t want to. Obviously I don’t want to. It’s not like the blog is making us any money, though.”

“True.”

On Jon’s side of the car, a few cows flicked past. He watched them, still frowning.

“Cheer up,” Georgie said. “We’re on a road trip.”

“I suppose.”

“I know what’ll make you feel better. A cute seaside town full of ghost rumors you can debunk derisively on the blog.”

He stared out the window with a fraction of a smile. “I _suppose._ ”

The blog was more of a hobby than anything else. Together, ever since college, they had documented various alleged hauntings on it. Jon wrote, and Georgie provided photographs.

“I’m still not sure about this,” he said suddenly. “I mean, come on. A throwaway gmail account tips us off about a secluded haunted lighthouse, and, what, we just go, no questions asked? Are you sure we’re not being lured out to a remote village so someone can murder us?”

“It’s not that remote. Melanie lives there.”

“Ugh.”

“Jon, you’ve met Melanie once. You only dislike her for stupid, pedantic reasons.”

“She called my prose ‘dry and uninspiring,’ which is awfully rich coming from a self-styled paranormal investigator who dramatizes every vaguely supernatural event she experiences for her series of cheap penny dreadfuls.”

“You know you’re a self-styled paranormal investigator too, right?” Georgie said, stifling an exasperated laugh.

“At least I have the decency to be scientific about it. I’m a researcher.”

“If you say so.”

They reached the peak of a hill, and suddenly the village spread out beneath their feet. It was an eclectic jumble of houses painted all the colors of saltwater taffy, with winding streets and sun-bleached roofs. Behind it, the sea stretched towards the horizon. It was startlingly blue, only a few shades darker than the sky. Georgie pulled over, and her ancient sedan rumbled over the grass.

“I need a picture of this,” she said, and threw her door open.

Jon stumbled reluctantly out of the car. The wind tugged at his hair until several gray-streaked strands fell out of his ponytail and whipped around his face. The air smelled like saltwater, even all the way up on the hill. He tilted his head, letting the golden sunlight wash over his face.

Georgie fiddled with the lens of her camera, peering through it at the neatly peaked gray-blue roofs beneath them. With the camera’s magnification, she could begin to make out window boxes and balconies.

“Is that the lighthouse?” Jon said suddenly.

She squinted into the distance. Separate from the town, a cliff reached toward the sea, half-shrouded in mist. A peppermint-striped structure perched on the end of it as if someone had dropped it there.

“Might be,” she said. “You’ve got better eyes than I do.”

She snapped a picture of it, just in case.

* * *

Once they made it into town, they ordered coffee at a small cafe and sat at a table outside, watching people meander down Main Street. At the table behind them, an ancient-looking woman in a cable-knit sweater chatted amicably with a fledgling goth. Jon watched them as he idly stirred his cappuccino.

“Nice town,” Georgie said.

Jon traced a wrought iron curlicue on the surface of their table with his index finger. “It seems quite peaceful. I’m interested to see what the library can tell me about its history.”

“Ha, nerd.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Georgie had ordered a massive cupcake with a swirl of turquoise icing on top. She dug into the icing with a tiny silver fork, and said, mouth full, “So what do you think about that email?”

“We’re going to go out there, it’s going to be a trap, and a man in a ski mask is going to disembowel us with a chainsaw.”

“I can’t believe someone so paranoid doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

“Ghosts aren’t real. Serial killers are.”

She shot him a look and tossed a cupcake crumb to a gathering crowd of small brown sparrows.

“Alright, fine.” Jon squinted at his phone as he pulled up their blog’s email account. “It’s fairly vague. Message from grbookworm1818 at gmail dot com.”

Behind them, the old woman chuckled quietly, and said something to her companion in a quavering, fragile voice. He smiled cautiously, and light flashed off his silver earrings.

“According to grbookworm1818, the facts are as follows. The lighthouse on the outskirts of this town is haunted by the specter of its previous owner, a sea captain by the name of Peter Lukas. Having no family to speak of, he willed the lighthouse to his enigmatic personal assistant, who reports hearing Lukas’ footsteps in the small hours of the night. Pretty typical, really.”

Georgie raised an eyebrow at him and stuffed a forkful of cupcake into her mouth.

“Then the message starts to get a little unusual. The person who sent it claims to be an expert in local history, and they say that the assistant-turned-lighthouse-keeper is unaware of an extensive natural cave system underneath the lighthouse. There are rumors of men moving a coffin into the caves late at night several years ago.”

“Do they think Lukas’ body was in that coffin?”

“Hard to say. The really interesting thing is that the sender seems to think the assistant is totally ignorant of the caves and the coffin incident. It wouldn’t be horribly unreasonable to assume that he killed his employer to gain his inheritance, but the sender thinks he’s completely innocent.”

“Hmm.” Georgie leaned forward on her elbows. “This coffin thing sounds interesting. Could it be the source of the haunting?”

“If there is a haunting. The lighthouse seems fairly old, and old buildings are prone to unusual noises. The coffin might be an urban legend, or just garden variety murder.”

“It’s a weird story, though, even if it is just a myth. Good blog material.”

“It certainly is.”

Jon sipped his cappuccino, squinting against the sun. He had brightened visibly since he started talking about the potential haunting. The defeated slant had gone out of his shoulders, and he had almost started to smile.

Georgie nudged his hand, grinning. “I told you this was going to be fun.”

“I should listen to you more often.”

“You should. I’m always right.”

“You are.”

Behind them, the old woman and the goth young man got up to leave. A few sparrows hopped across the faded cobblestones, and sunlight gleamed on a terra cotta pot of geraniums across the street.

“I’ll go check into the bed and breakfast,” Jon said. “Why don’t you go explore?”

* * *

Past rows of pastel houses and winding roads, Georgie finally found a bookstore. An old oak door with multicolored stained glass windows set into its polished surface proudly proclaimed that it was open. The entranceway was flanked by white trellises full of vivid yellow roses, and the display windows were piled high with vividly colored paperbacks. _Elmwood Street Books_ , the sign above the doorway announced in red and gold letters.

Georgie pushed open the door, and a bell jingled. Somewhere in the maze of aging mahogany bookshelves, a cat meowed. A rainbow of light streamed through the stained glass in the door, dying the threadbare carpet. She wandered over to a spindly table with a placard reading _Local Authors_ and picked up a paperback.

There was a vivid picture of a crime scene on the cover, with blood so bright it was almost fuschia and the dark shadow of a girl with a knife stretching across the wall. _The Song of Slaughter,_ it said, _by Melanie King._

“You should totally buy it,” someone said behind her. “I’d make three entire pounds.”

Georgie whirled around. Melanie smiled at her. She was carrying a handful of paper bags full of groceries. A baguette poked out of the largest one and tipped precariously toward the floor.

“Melanie!” Georgie said. “It’s so good to see you!”

“You too. I had no idea you were in town.”

Melanie leaned back and shut the door, then hoisted her groceries up and made her way to the back of the bookstore. Georgie trailed after her. The floorboards offered up a cacophony of creaks.

“I’m here on vacation,” Georgie said. “Well, technically I'm here because someone thinks the lighthouse is haunted. Jon and I are going to do a blog post about it.”

Melanie pulled out a small bronze key and unlocked a door with a frosted glass window. “Ugh. Jon.”

“I don’t know why you dislike him so much.”

“He’s irritatingly pretentious. Oh, and if he gets really prickly if you try and talk to him about his writing.”

“So do you,” Georgie pointed out.

Melanie waved a hand, light glittering off her crimson nails. “Yeah, but I’m cooler.”

The door creaked open. Inside, a spiral staircase made of caramel-colored wood curled upwards, sunlight spilling down the steps. There was a small, round window at the top of the stairs, offering a view of the potted plants on the neighbor’s balcony.

“Can I help with your groceries?” Georgie asked.

“Nah, I’ve got it.”

Melanie started lugging them up the stairs. Georgie grabbed the baguette before it could topple out.

“Thanks.”

An incredibly fluffy gray cat slunk past her and bounded up the stairs. It looked more than anything like a wisp of storm cloud had been given life. Once it reached the top, it stared judgmentally down at them with topaz-colored eyes.

Melanie opened another door, panting slightly. “So. Sorry for the mess.”

Georgie stared around her friend’s apartment. There was hardly any mess at all, save for a few empty cans of pomegranate-flavored soda. The cat walked past her, tail held high, and settled in a rose-patterned armchair. A sea breeze shifted gauzy white curtains, and the pages of a book flipped slowly on the coffee table. A row of pink-tinted seashells gleamed on the chipped paint of a bookshelf.

In the kitchen, Melanie rushed around putting things into cupboards and stocking her refrigerator. The cat on the armchair opened one eye as she banged a drawer shut, then closed it again.

“Sorry,” Melanie said. “I just got home.”

Georgie sat on the teal couch. “I didn’t realize you lived above a bookstore.”

“Technically, I own the bookstore.” Melanie paused for a minute, hesitating in the doorway. “I opened it after my father passed. Right after I left London.”

“It’s a very nice bookstore.”

“Thanks.” 

“Can I offer you some tea? Or water. Whatever works.”

“Tea sounds lovely.”

Melanie switched the kettle on, then collapsed onto the couch next to her. “What’re you up to these days? Still into photography?”

“Yeah. I actually brought my camera, if you’d like to—”

Melanie sat up, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I’d love to see, if you want to show me.”

“If you’re sure you wouldn’t be bored.”

“Of course I wouldn’t be bored, Georgie, come on.”

“If you say so.”

The screen on her camera flickered on, and Melanie leaned over to look at it. She was so close that Georgie could smell her light perfume. It was light and citrusy, like lemon trees in the sun. Melanie smelled like summer.

“I like this one,” she said. “Is this the lighthouse?”

Had Melanie always been this beautiful? Her coffee-colored hair curled around her cheeks like the wings of a hawk, and her eyes turned fire-colored when the sun hit them. Had that always been the case?

“Yeah, but it’s from really far away,” Georgie said, swallowing.

“Hopefully you’ll get down there tomorrow morning. The cliffs are really pretty.”

Georgie clicked through a few more photos. Melanie was close enough that she could count every one of the freckles dotting her nose like stars in the sky. Melanie’s lips were parted slightly, and they looked incredibly soft.

On the camera screen, a few mundane scenes flashed by. A mug of translucent green tea. A plate of cookies and a jar of ruby-colored jam. Georgie’s neighbor’s hydrangeas.

“I like your work,” Melanie said quietly. “You make ordinary life look so beautiful, and I love all the pictures of your friends. I can tell you really care about them.”

Georgie paused on a photo of Jon. He looked alarmed. She had caught him in the exact moment he realized he was being photographed, as he stood in her kitchen sipping Earl Grey from a chipped purple mug.

Then she raised the camera and took a photo of Melanie. It caught her with a look of wonder on her face, her beautiful eyes wide and her mouth open. The sunlight shone on her soft dark hair and the freckles dusted across her face. A triangle of sunlight sat at the base of her throat like a patch of gold leaf.

“I do care about them,” she said. Then she blinked. “I’m really sorry, I should have asked permission first. I’ll delete it if you want.”

“Don’t,” Melanie said.

They stayed like that for a millisecond or two, frozen in the afternoon sun like dragonflies in amber. The cat yawned on the armchair, and the moment vanished. Melanie leaned back. Georgie coughed.

“So what have you been doing lately?” she said, too loudly.

“Oh, the usual. Writing. Keeping an eye on the bookstore. Nothing exciting’s really happened in this town since Leitner died.”

“Leitner?” Georgie asked.

“Jurgen Leitner. He was a horrible pompous old man, but the constant arguments and disputes kept things interesting. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything.”

“Arguments and disputes?”

“This is ancient gossip, but yeah. Nobody liked him, apparently he was awful to his employees. Once he ran into Gerard Keay on the street and Gerard punched him right in the face.”

“What happened to him?”

“Gerard Keay? He’s fine, he lives right down the street.”

“No, Leitner.”

Melanie hesitated, frowning. “He… he actually died pretty violently. The police ruled it a suicide.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

Melanie fiddled with the zipper on her jacket. “I don’t know. No one really knows what happened to him, and everyone did dislike him.”

“This place seems so peaceful, though. You really think someone killed him?”

A seagull flapped past the window. Melanie turned her head to watch it fly. Her hair shifted, cascading around her cheeks, and Georgie tried not to think about running her fingers through it.

“I mean, probably not. That’s just what would have happened if it was one of my books.” Melanie flopped back onto the cushions. “Man, this conversation got dark. Didn’t mean to get into local conspiracy theories.”

“It’s okay, it’s interesting.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Melanie jumped.

“I guess I’d better get that,” she said.

Georgie followed her down a different set of creaking stairs, where a bottle-green door opened out onto the street. Melanie opened the door. The street was completely empty, save for a white cat slinking into an alley.

“Some kind of prank?” Melanie wondered. 

There was a piece of folded white paper lying on the cobblestones. It was slightly damp where a corner of it had slipped into a puddle. Georgie reached down and picked it up.

“What’s that?”

Georgie opened it, and immediately folded it shut again. “We shouldn’t have this. It’s an autopsy report.”

“Can I see?” 

Georgie handed it over. Melanie read it, and her eyebrows shot up.

* * *

“Murdered? Really?” Jon said, sprawled across one of the twin-sized beds in their shared hotel room.

Georgie paced the length of the room, hands behind her back. “Well, the autopsy report says there was an abnormally high level of this one chemical used in sleeping pills in his bloodstream when he died.”

He peered at her over the tops of his reading glasses. “Are you sure the autopsy report is real?”

“No, of course not. But it’s still really weird. I think we should try and find out a little bit more before we go to the police, in case it’s an elaborate prank.”

“Shouldn’t the police have seen the autopsy report already?”

“You’d think so, yeah. Even if it is a prank, I want to know who sent it. Why would someone do something like that?”

Jon shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Well, Melanie and I are going to investigate. Mind checking out the lighthouse by yourself tomorrow?”

“Not at all.” Jon paused, then folded his reading glasses and put them in his pocket. “You do realize that you could just ask her out on a regular date, right? You don’t need the pretense of solving a mystery.”

Georgie threw a pillow at him.


End file.
